


Unawakened

by tempered_rose



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Death, Cold War, Communism, Espionage, F/M, Feelings, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Mission Fic, Politics, Serious Injuries, Soviet Union, Spies & Secret Agents, Spoilers, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-17 04:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4652346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempered_rose/pseuds/tempered_rose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illya is called back to Moscow while Napoleon and Gaby go about a mission in the States. Feeling a little put-out by missing out on it, Illya sulks. When some bad news comes to everyone's attention, they all react and not always in the most helpful of ways…when that bad news becomes a tragedy, whoever stands in their way will pay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Joy of Night

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying a multi-part fic for this fandom, we'll see how it goes. :) Here is the first chapter, I hope you like it. More to come soon! Please take note of the warnings, I can't tell you exactly what the warnings are without spoiling the plot, but trust me. You need to be warned.
> 
> The title comes from a Pushkin poem called '[Awakening](https://russianlegacy.com/russian_culture/poetry/pushkin/awakening.htm)'. And I'm going to try to do the chapter names with the same poem, this may or may not work with all of them, but I'm going to try. Anyway. Here you are. Please let me know what you think :)

Istanbul is long faded behind them; they’ve been all across Europe as a trio working together but never separately. It’s been three months since the mission that brought them all together, before there was an U.N.C.L.E., before there was a relationship that ran a little bit deeper than simple professionalism allowed. They’ve been to Prague, Venice, Madrid, and are now in Paris all on missions for ‘the Uncle’ they refer to. Sometimes Gaby has been his fiancée, others she’s been Napoleon’s and Illya has to remind himself that no matter how much he wishes she were, she is in fact _not_ his woman. Not yet, anyway, but he still has to find a way to ask her.

He’s in a chair still in his hotel room, overlooking the city’s twinkling lights as the night grows darker. It’s after midnight he thinks, but he hasn’t really looked. He’s waiting for Napoleon to come back from surveillance before he’ll allow himself to go to bed. He knows it’ll be a job that lasts till three in the morning or later, so he’s not worried.

Illya wouldn’t go so far as to stretch the truth out to the fact he likes the American, but Cowboy does have a presence about him that can’t be denied. He’s charismatic, delightfully so, and enchanting when he wishes to be. Illya rolls his eyes at some of the things the man has gotten himself into, and admittedly out of, since they began working together.

The phone ringing startles him because he wasn’t expecting anyone to be calling him, never mind this late. Illya sighs and pushes his body to work to stand to move over to answer the phone. He’s a little stiff; he guesses he’d been sitting longer than he thought. Illya lets his hand wrap around the receiver before he picks up the phone and speaks into it. A Russian voice comes across the other end of the line telling him the line is secured before his handler’s voice is in his ear.

“Kuryakin. I trust you are well.”

“Yes, Oleg.” He says in their native tongue and listens to what the other man has to say.

“Once this mission is over you are to return immediately to Moscow. We have work for you to do.”

Illya frowns. He thought the U.N.C.L.E. project would last a lot longer than six or seven missions. But he is smart enough not to speak back to a higher up member of the KGB. Otherwise, he will be the one that someone is assigned to take out. Good luck, he thinks to his non-existent would-be assassin.

“Yes, sir.” He lets his tone remain impassive but his thoughts pick up their pace. He’s not even remotely sleepy anymore.

“Good. See you soon.” There is a soft click and then the line goes dead and Illya replaces the phone in its cradle. He sighs and lets his head drop, chin against his chest as his eyes close. His sense of hearing takes over as his sight is temporarily on leave. His mind, however, does not silence itself.

He was getting used to the quirks of his new teammates. He was becoming familiar with them to the point where he would like to think of them as something more than just partners. Comrades, he almost says but he thinks he would get an eye roll and a sight from Solo or a slap from Gaby if he dared say that out loud. He translates the word as best he can and thinks ‘friends’ is not inaccurate, but what would Oleg say if he were to admit that? KGB agents could never, ever be friends with CIA or British MI6 agents. He may as well defect now and save everyone the trouble if he goes around saying things like that.

Illya shakes his head and opens his eyes to turn around. He decides against sitting in the chair again, his stiff legs tell him that they need a break. So he walks to the window and looks at the city. It’s beautiful and he wonders why his country tries to hide things like this from the rest of Russia. A political debate starts in his head and he feels conflicted, and not for the first time.

Before he knew either of the other two, he always felt a duty towards his country, a privilege in being a Communist. He would be equal to his fellow man. For a man who always stood out, being the same seemed like a good idea. On paper, that’s all that he was. But Illya had grown a little disenchanted with the idea because he always stood out. He got a job working for the KGB. That wasn’t a ‘common’ job. He was one of the best KGB agents by his young age. That wasn’t a common thing to be. He was proficient in chess and gymnastics and general athleticism. That was perhaps more common, but it was a stretch. The fact that he was so tall in a country of people frequently shorter than him didn’t help either.

Having been released into the wild of the West, Illya had seen so many new things and tasted so much _life_ that it was hard to remember what it was like in Russia. He guessed he would have to remember very quickly because if they caught wind of his ideology shift, if they thought he wasn’t being a good Communist, never mind a good agent, they would send him to Siberia or worse. Illya shook his head and was about to turn away from the window when he heard the door of his suite open. Without thinking, he ducked into the shadows near the curtain and looked for the intruder.

With the soft latching sound, the door shut and there was just enough light coming in from the city beyond the curtains, that Illya could recognize the slow steps of Gaby. He relaxed and stepped out from the shadow. She paused at the sudden movement, clearly not used to the dark after being in the light of the corridor outside, but Illya was beside her before she had to move very far anyway. She let her hand rest on his arm as her body curled into his. He simply raised an eyebrow but let her lean against him.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She says quietly and Illya nods. He can hear the weariness in her voice and she’s barely standing upright. He thinks she could fall asleep at any minute, so he slides an arm around her body and guides her towards his bed. They have done this a few times; she can’t sleep, so she comes to stay with him since he’s typically the last to go to sleep anyway, and he holds her. She needs him for a pillow, she says as an excuse but Illya wonders if she just likes his company. He hopes it’s that but he doesn’t say it. There’s a lot of things he should get around to telling Gaby, but he never does. Oh well.

He pulls the blanket down for her and she’s practically already in his bed before he can stand up straight again. He smiles a little as he pulls the blanket back over her. Like the first time he ever tucked her in in Rome, her hand reaches out for his, only this time he wasn’t going to walk away. He squeezes lightly on her fingers before he releases them so that he can move around to the other side of the bed. Illya doesn’t pull the blankets down, choosing instead to lay on top of them, but Gaby is already curled around his body and he smiles a little as he holds her closer.

It takes only a few minutes but she’s falling asleep again and Illya listens to the sound of her breathing. He’ll miss her when he’s gone, he already knows that. He keeps an extra-close hold on her for that reason as he lets his head lean back against the headboard. This bed is a lot more comfortable than the one he has at home, and the company in it is infinitely better than being on his own. 

Gaby’s breathing soothes him as he lets her warmth settle around him. He wasn’t cold that he noticed before, but now that she’s here, it’s as if he needs more to make himself regulate his body temperature. Maybe he’s been freezing his whole life and has never noticed until someone warm came along to let him know. He shifts a little lower in the bed, letting her press closer to his body. His thumb continuously strokes the smooth skin of the back of her hand as it’s curled against his chest and still in his own larger hand.

They haven’t had sex yet, always a damn interruption parts them, but at least they’ve kissed a few hundred times. Illya’s pretty sure that he does love her to the depths of his soul, but he’s been so detached from emotion for his entire life that he really can’t be certain what it is that he feels, if he can feel at all. So he’s arrived at the conclusion that whatever he feels for her is a sense of protection and attachment. He couldn’t bear to see her hurt in any way, nor would he ever allow anyone to hurt her. He does find himself thinking about her when she’s not around, and he’s always immensely happy when she does return to him. He wishes for a thousand moments like this one, where it’s just the two of them together and nothing can bother them, nothing can drive them apart. He feels something for her, but he just isn’t sure what exactly that is.

Illya’s initial thought was correct, Solo did return around three. It was half-three and more vehicles were beginning to move around outside. The city would begin to stir awake soon. Illya settled Gaby in his arms as he let himself start to wind down enough to fall asleep.

* * *

The three of them have breakfast when the mission is over. Reconnaissance was all that they were doing, gathering information on someone who may or may not become a threat in the future. Illya had suggested they put a potential menace to bed early, but that’s where the viewpoints of their nation differed. Napoleon insisted that they would not condemn a man on his actions that haven’t happened yet. All they would do would be observe and _if_ he committed a crime, _then_ they would punish him, not before. Illya had disagreed.

It had led to a slightly awkward breakfast that was hardly improved by the arrival of Gaby’s British handler. Illya was sipping his tea while Solo had retreated behind the pages of a French newspaper. Gaby was buttering some toast and was considering which jam to place on it when Waverly seated himself at their table. Solo continued to read, Illya stirred his tea, and Gaby was the only one who acknowledged him with a nod.

“Well then, now that this mess is sorted,” Waverly started and began to fix himself some tea, “I believe it’s time to inform you that your next destination will be quite pleasing to you, Mister Solo.”

“How’s that?” He asks, corner of the paper dipping down a little so he can look at the Briton.

“You’ll be returning home, of course. You’ll be going to New York.”

Solo grins, and the paper collapses in on itself very quickly in his excitement. He ruffles the pages, but it’s forgotten. Gaby thinks he looks truly delighted to be leaving Europe and she makes a mental note to ask him about it later. It’ll be a long flight and they’ll have lots of time for her to ask questions.

“Really?” She asks, excitement stirring her own bloodstream. She hasn’t been to America yet. She wants to see what all the fuss is about, not to mention visit a few shops on Madison Avenue if she gets the time. She will make the time necessary for a stop to visit the Chanel store if nothing else.

“Indeed, Gaby. Stateside is where the pair of you are off to next.”

It’s his use of the word pair and not trio that has Napoleon’s enthusiasm momentarily diverted. Gaby looks up from her selection of marmalade also.

“The pair of us? What is Peril going to be doing?” Napoleon asks, looking at the silent blond man.

“I’m not quite sure.” Waverly replies honestly and glances at their Russian friend. “Moscow has recalled him for some reason.”

Gaby speaks first, turning to Illya as Napoleon’s frown only deepens. His enthusiasm is gone, faded into curious study.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Illya shrugs and remains quiet. He’s finally stopped stirring his tea and instead, he’s crossed his arms over his chest. He is equally grateful to and despises Waverly for being the one to tell them. He keeps his expressions to himself and doesn’t let them show. The truth was, he would have liked to have followed the pair Stateside to see what the big fuss was about. Perhaps that’s why the Kremlin ordered his return. Can’t have their best KGB agent in the heartland of their enemy, can they?

“How long have you known?” Gaby asks but Napoleon speaks over her.

“I’m sure we’ll be seeing you soon enough, Peril.” He stands, diverting only Waverly’s attention because Gaby is fixated on Illya and won’t look away from him. “I’m going to make some arrangements.”

Waverly takes his fixed cup of tea and follows Napoleon into the hotel room from the balcony they had been sitting on. Not even he, curious as he is, wants to be the awkward third wheel to the conversation Gaby’s going to demand of Illya, who remains silent and prepares for her onslaught.

“You should have told me, I would have…well, when do you leave?” Illya wonders what she would have done if he had told her earlier. There was no way in Hell she could have gone with him, and she wouldn’t stay in Paris for fear of insubordination. She would have had to go if nothing else.

“This afternoon.” He says and he’s not lying. With the mission officially over, surveillance done and recorded in the proper channels, he was sent a telegram informing him that a one-way ticket to Moscow was waiting for him at the airport at four o’clock. He would be in Moscow by eight thirty and in his flat there by nine.

Gaby looks disappointed and Illya feels as though he really should have said something.

“I will see you again, won’t I?” She whispers, or tries to, but has to speak louder because traffic down below has decided it wants to interrupt their moment. Illya nods.

“Of course.” But not even he knows if that’s the truth or not. He hopes it is; he doesn’t want this to be their final goodbye. “I will make it happen.” He says and tries to smile a little. This is more honest. If he can’t be with her again in the way that they were, he would not mind seeing her again personally if he could ever find a way to do so.

Gaby nods and sets her toast down. The appetite she had is gone and she gets up to move around the table. She slides her arms around his neck and hugs him. She’s at an angle where he can’t pull her closer and he wishes she would just move a little bit to the right so he could pull her right into his lap… but then she’s gone and he missed his moment. Illya sighs. Why is he always missing the important moment?

He watches her walk back into the suite and Illya sighs, taking a sip of tea. It’s gotten cold from too much stirring, but he doesn’t care. He didn’t really ever like tea anyway. He leans back in his chair and listens to the sound of birds chirping and it sounds more pleasant than the honking from down below. Not even the birds sound more pleasing to him than when Gaby says his name, though, and Illya realizes just how much he has gotten used to her presence.

Illya sighs and taps the table with his fingers before pushing himself up. He needs to pack and he needs to shave before he leaves. He spares a glance into the suite where Solo is telling Gaby a story about someone called Macy at Christmastime and Waverly is entranced while Gaby looks the same. Illya shakes his head and leaves them there, disappearing without being noticed and he returns to his room to begin packing.


	2. And Now Alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all very much for reading this fic. :) I'm overwhelmed by your response and thank you very much :D More to come soon, I promise ♥ I tried something slightly different with this chapter in regards to the time and attempted to make it kind of like the movie, hopefully it worked, but eh. If any of you get bored and would like to, you can follow me on [Tumblr](http://elleeffsee.tumblr.com/). #longliveGallya :D
> 
> *ahem* And now back to our regularly scheduled programming…

In the end, he isn’t in his flat by nine and it’s much, much later before he can unlock the door. Once he does so, he goes straight into the apartment after locking the door behind him and securing the deadbolt. His bag is dropped by the door and kicked hard across the room as he stumbles towards the bathroom to wash the blood off of his hands. The rage he felt earlier is now simmering, but it’s still there, but logic has come back to him and he knows he needs to clean up and assess the damage that he’s caused.

He’s silent as he scrubs at his hands then he happens to glance up in the mirror. There’s blood on his face, his neck, his shirt, on his arms. It’s everywhere. Illya lets out a sound of frustration and then it’s back, burning white hot inside of him and he burns from the inside out.

* * *

**3:15PM, Paris**

Gaby insisted on going with him to the airport and he’s let her because he’s finally given in and there’s only so much he can do to resist her when she wants anything. He would give her the solar system if there was only a way to do so and if she asked for it. He demands, however, that she stay in the car once they arrive. They walked down from their suite and entered into a taxi together before being taken to Paris’ airport. They haven’t spoken much since they got into it, afraid of what the taxi driver might overhear.

When the car stops, Illya reaches between his knees for his case and his hand has only just grasped the handle when her hand comes across to touch his arm. He looks over, questions in his eyes, and Gaby looks as if there’s a couple hundred things she wants to tell him before he goes. He is only left to wonder what they can all be when she finally speaks, saying something that he definitely files away to hold dear to him until he sees her again.

“I’ll miss you.” Perhaps that was all that was needed to be said. He can see it in her eyes and she’s not bothering to hide the depth of sentiment of those words. He nods once and leans over to kiss her cheek lightly, the only gesture he will allow himself. If he kisses her lips like he desperately wants to, he will never leave the cab and then he’ll be in bigger trouble.

“Stay safe,” he murmurs by her ear before he pulls away altogether and Gaby nods. He gives her the smallest smile, the only one he can really manage, and he opens the door. The taxi driver is subtly watching them through the rearview mirror and Illya pulls out a few notes from his wallet. He says in accented French, “Take her anywhere she wishes to go.”

The driver takes the money and takes a large notice to the amount of tip that Illya left him. He nods once and Illya spares a final glance at Gaby. He won’t forget the way she looks there, sitting in Dior and diamonds and watching him as if she is trying to find a way to prevent him from leaving at the last minute. He knows he’s going to be late and miss his flight if he doesn’t go now, and that’s the only thought he has before nodding once and shuts the door behind him. He turns on his heel, suitcase in a steel grip as he walks into the airport to check in. He makes himself not look back, because he’s not even sure that he would be able to stop himself from chasing the taxi back to the hotel.

* * *

**6:50PM, East Berlin**

Illya’s patience is thin as he watches the men reviewing the papers of any passenger on board his flight from Paris. They were diverted, the pilot had said over the intercom system, because of a need for ‘safety checks’ of the aircraft. Illya keeps his thoughts to himself but suspects the KGB were involved, though for what he cannot say. He’s tempted to make a phone call to Oleg to see what the fuss is all about but he doesn’t. That would only look suspicious and after all, he has nothing to hide.

When the steely gaze of the inspector arrives on him and a shouted command for his papers comes with an outstretched hand, Illya hands over his passport. His Soviet one, his real one. They take a look at his name and he wonders if they recognize it. If they do, he can’t tell because they are pushing the passport back into his hand and moving on to the next person as if he were nothing special at all.

There’s not that many people who fly to Moscow and Illya thinks after this flight there will be even fewer. This thought is reinforced by the sight of the same agents dragging away an innocent looking businessman. One is carrying the man, the other is carrying his briefcase. Illya wonders what this man dared to do that went against the regime but he holds his tongue.

The flight is called to re-board and Illya only wants to get back to the place he calls home the few times a year he’s actually there. As he carries his case back down the concourse, he realizes that home really isn’t in Moscow anymore.

As the plane eventually clears the runway a little while later, Illya looks down at the city. It’s darker on one side than on the other. The Western side is always illuminated. Illya knows somewhere down there is a little chop shop that’s missing its girl. He almost smiles to himself before he realizes that it hurts to know Gaby is so far away and that he won’t see her for a while. He really has developed at attachment. He clenches his fist and tries to force the feeling away. That won’t do for a well-trained spy.

* * *

**7:00PM, Paris**

“Are you sad to be leaving my dear?” Napoleon asks as he waits in line with Gaby to board the large plane that’s going to take them to London and then directly on to New York afterward.

“A little,” she replies listlessly. “Paris is a wonderful city.”

“It is, very much so.” He replies and earns only silence. So he looks at her.

Napoleon takes note of her distraction but he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he squeezes her hand with his own and starts to hand over their paperwork and passports, faked because they are travelling as a married couple. Napoleon notices Gaby’s ring as he takes back their documentation. It’s the bugged one that Illya gave her. He simply shakes his head and walks along with her as they go to board the jetliner.

He lets her take the window seat, but he wonders if she’s going to be looking out the window and actually seeing the sights below or if she’s going to be looking out and seeing only blond hair and blue eyes. He sighs and seats himself next to her and orders a glass of champagne with a charming smile directed at the hostess.

Gaby ignores Napoleon’s flirting with the stewardess and wants to know where Illya is. She wonders if he’s home yet or if he’s also in the sky somewhere over Europe. Not for the first time, she wishes he could have experienced America with her for their first time together.

* * *

**10:00PM, Moscow**

He’s on the ground finally and his legs are grateful for it. He walks out of Moscow’s airport and looks at the semi-illuminated city that greets him. A cold slap of wind reminds him that winter’s coming and he hasn’t been here in months. He should have worn a thicker sweater, or perhaps a coat. He starts towards one of the few remaining taxis there are and gives an address down the block from where he lives. He’ll walk the rest of the way home and the driver starts off without batting an eyelash.

Illya looks out the window at the city and is surprised by how colorless it is. It’s not just the fact the sun has long since been down, especially with the seasons changing, and it’s not the fact that it’s nighttime. The entire city seems to have been constructed without color, only the Cathedral and red-bricked government buildings seem to have taken any notion of the word. He sighs and looks back down to his hands. He wonders what his handler has in store for him.

The car slows to a stop at the designated address and Ilya pays him. He’s glad he remembered to exchange his currency in the airport because he almost forgot. It would look very odd for him to attempt to pay in francs instead of rubles and he would likely have had to stop and answer a few questions that he didn’t really need or want to answer. He hands over the money and gets out with his case in hand.

He notes the shift of atmospheric pressure and figures it’s going to rain before the night is over. He starts walking down the sidewalk and hears the taxi drive off. Illya has walked this street a thousand times for many different reasons. The flat he’s going to is government issued and therefore dull and bugged. He tries to avoid it as much as possible, chosing instead to loiter in the park down the street, which is what he is walking past now.

Illya sits on a bench in the park before he goes home and looks across the empty, abandoned place. During the day, kids sometimes play here and older couples walk around the path. He wonders if they are old enough to remember what Russia was like before the Revolution and he wonders if things were better then.

An uncomfortable thought takes him, not for the first time. He has heard tales, told to him since his boyhood, of how things were different before the great Stalin changed things. How bad the Tsar and Tsarina had been and why they had needed to go. It had been drilled into his mind while things like emotion and sentiment and attachments were drilled out of them. He already had psychotic tendencies, and the KGB honed in on those traits until he was made the assassin and spy he was now.

But he had seen things on the other side of the Curtain. Things that belied what he had been taught and he wondered where the line of truth and lie had blurred.

Napoleon was a sentimentalist and when he was drunk just enough, he would tell Gaby all sorts of things about his childhood and life back in America. Illya had listened, of course, but he hadn’t believed most of what the American had said. Honestly, who had a pickup truck all to themselves that wasn’t used for farming? Who could read anything by Solzhenitsyn without being sent to prison? And what was a base-ball and why did it need to be hit with a stick?

He had been sent out of Russia before, working for the KGB. But it usually was in other Soviet or Fascist countries and he didn’t have much to do in the West, though he had dipped out a few times. He wasn’t the KGB’s finest agent for no reason, after all. Illya had never once questioned his motherland’s intentions or rhetoric.

But now he had the excuse to. He had met an America and a British person and neither of them were actively trying to kill him. He’d held conversations with these men and they seemed…normal. Not the anti-Soviet demons that he’d been led to expect, though they were anti-Communist for sure.

Napoleon always kept a well-stocked library in his luggage, making it far heavier than it ever need be, Illya suspected, but the Russian had found himself looking longingly at a few of those titles. He loved to read, though he didn’t have much time for it, and the reading list in Russia wasn’t always the most thrilling. Napoleon had fallen asleep once on the sofa of their shared suite with Gaby and Illya had seen a copy of something called ‘ _Doctor Zhivago_ ’. Recognizing the Russian name, Illya had delicately extracted the book from Napoleon’s limp grasp and had looked the book over before deciding to see what foolish propaganda it contained. Gaby had found him seven hours later sat in a rather odd position with his legs dangling over the side of an armchair and his head resting on the other arm of the chair with the book propped up on his chest. He was somewhere in the middle of the book and she shook her head, smiled, and started to order breakfast.

From the moment Napoleon woke up and realized where his book had wandered off to—by that point, Illya was in the same sleeping position Napoleon had been in earlier, only he was much further along in the text—he had started leaving a few more of his books lying around. He would come back and find them with a piece of paper stuck intermittently in them, acting as a placeholder for a certain bibliophilic Russian spy.

It wasn’t just the books either.

He obviously really wasn’t a Russian architect, but he did appreciate the different styles of it and had been silently impressed by all he had seen. He could have stayed in Paris for years, just admiring the beauty of the city. Gaby had said there was something about Paris that called to one’s soul, you either could feel it or you could not and Illya definitely understood what she had meant. He liked the French capital and could potentially see himself retiring there one day, if ever the Soviet Union stretched far enough to pull France behind her Curtain as well.

The rain started as Illya was thinking about all the Western things he had seen in the three months he had been gone. He felt a raindrop glide along his cheek and he stirred out of his thoughts to realize that it must have been raining for a while already. The formerly dry ground now had puddles in a few places and his hair was soaked, as well as his sweater. He shivered when he came to his senses; it truly had gotten a lot colder. Not wanting to catch pneumonia and delay his return to U.N.C.L.E. for his own folly, Illya pushed himself to sit up and grabbed his suitcase again. The leather would not forgive him in the morning and he was thinking of ways to care for it without damaging it further when he heard a noise behind him.

All of his senses went on alert as he placed three men behind him, following him towards his apartment. Illya grabbed the suitcase a little tighter and willed the three away, to leave him alone before things got ugly. He should have known they wouldn’t listen.

“Comrade, that is nice jacket. Won’t you share it?” The leader of the trio said and Illya found himself recalling a similar statement made by an Italian three months ago.

“Not tonight.” Illya replied shortly when another spoke up.

“We will take it from you then.” They spread apart and Illya sighed as he came to stop in front of them. _I will show him what the Russian way truly is_ , Illya felt delighted and let his inhibitions go.

He stunned the first one, the leader, with his suitcase, having thrown it in the direction of the man’s chin. The one who had spoken second had pulled out a knife but Illya clipped him in the throat with a well-executed strike and he was soon struggling to breathe, never mind attack anyone. The third got in a well placed punch to Illya’s ribs but did no more before Illya was twisting his arm backwards behind his back and threatening him in no uncertain terms in his ear.

Illya thought he had done well defending himself, but he had underestimated the stupidity of the ringleader because the man launched himself at Illya once he’d released the third man. Like wrestling with Gaby the first time, Illya had not been prepared for the momentum and fell backwards onto the pavement. He was momentarily winded, the attacker using this to punch Illya in the mouth and face.

Rage built and skyrocketed faster than Illya could ever put a measure of speed onto and he hauled the other man to the ground and began to decimate his face with his fist. The other two scattered as Illya didn’t stop on their friend. He wasn’t sure if he shouted out loud, but the man beneath him certainly was.

If it hadn’t been for a car driving by and splashing up water on the pair of them, Illya probably would have killed the man. As it was, he slowly got up and left the man on the street.

“Let the rats have you,” Illya said before he retrieved his damaged case. His hands were shaking as they were bloodied and his jaw was beginning to bother him, but he started down the street back towards his apartment like he’d intended all along. He didn’t really care what happened to his assailant; he only hoped he didn’t look too worse for wear in his meeting with Oleg tomorrow.


	3. And In the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to preface this with: I do not speak Russian and sincerely hope I translated the couple things in here adequately. If not, I sincerely apologize and will update them if you have the corrections. :) Also, I did do some research into the history of the Chrysler Building and hopefully the law firm mentioned was there in the 60's. It definitely is a real law firm, though I use their name here fictitiously. I don't own anything, please don't sue me!

Gaby can’t take her eyes off of it as she continues staring up over her head. Napoleon laughed at her reaction before walking on ahead into the building, but when he realizes she still hasn’t followed him inside, he sighs and moves back over to where she is on the sidewalk.

“We’re going to be late. While they are lawyers and I don’t precisely care for them, they do charge exorbitant amounts per the hour…” Napoleon says in his most charming way, except for today he isn’t Napoleon Solo. He is a man named Henry Roberts who is thirty four years of age, a wealthy heir from Texas, and is looking to arrange a discreet agreement between him and his foreign fiancee before they get married. A scandalous affair to be sure, which is why a very expensive lawyer in New York City was guaranteed to be the answer to any and all problems that they may have had.

“It’s just...so large.” Gaby stammers out and can’ believe that this one isn’t the only one. How it’s standing, she isn’t even quite sure. She’s seen a few others on their way to it and still she can’t believe it.

“It’s called a skyscraper, darling. Now let’s go and see about our prenuptial agreement, okay, sweetheart?” He smiles and takes her by the arm, firmly. He’s too rough in his touch, but they have wasted quite enough time as Gaby has been looking at the large feat of architecture overhead.

She follows him into the lobby of the building, called the Chrysler Building for some reason, she doesn’t even know what a ‘Chrysler’ is, and can’t help but look at reception. Napoleon, nay, Henry moves to the desk and smiles in a jovial way to the man who is in charge of directing foot traffic.

“Say, you don’t know the number that Troutman-Sanders is on, do you?” Henry says in a large broad Texas accent, the way Gaby has been assured that all Texans speak in. The guard gestures to the decal posted on the wall that indicates which floors house the tenants of the building and Henry smiles a little bit broader. “Suppose I should’ve checked that out before asking a dumb question. Thank y’all.” He tips his hat and guides Gaby towards the elevators. She notices the way the guard’s eyes linger on her legs and she’s grateful that Napoleon suggested she wear the longer-skirted Hayward suit that he’d picked out instead of the more fashionable choices she’d had at her disposal. She looked more serious than she would have liked, but with the eyes of leering men looking at her, she’s glad she does.

Napoleon hits a button in the elevator and soon they’re going up. Gaby almost forgets that she’s in a building that is over a thousand feet high, according to the American at her side. They aren’t the only ones in the elevator and so they can’t communicate about the mission. Gaby spares him a look that he only shakes his head minutely to register before sliding his arm around her back and kisses her temple.

“Come on sugar, this is us.” He says in that ridiculous accent before he guides her out of the elevator. He says ‘excuse us’ several times over before getting out of the elevator completely. The office space is very nice and trendy and Gaby only has to look out one of the large windows to recall that she’s not only a floor or two above the ground but several hundred feet instead.

Another reception desk awaits and Napoleon is as charming as ever in this pseudo-Southern accent and manages to get them to wait in an empty office that’s missing a lawyer. The receptionist, a pretty blond woman that smiles at Napoleon like his fiancee isn’t standing right there next to him, promises that a Mister Charles Francis will be with them as soon as he can. Then she leaves and Gaby looks around his office as Napoleon places a discreet bug under the corner of the man’s desk. It can’t be seen with the lip of the desk overhanging how it is and the only way you could feel it is if you were to run your hands along the underside of the desk. Even then, it would only feel like a natural divot in the wood, or so Napoleon said in the car before they were dropped off. It had appeared like an inconspicuous taxi, but really was a vehicle sent from headquarters.

Gaby stays in her chair when the lawyer comes in, her view taken by the city outside the window. Napoleon, now back in character as Henry, joins her after shaking the lawyer’s hand. He sits down opposite them on the other side of the desk. If Gaby ever pictured a swanky lawyer, she certainly would have put Mr. Francis in that category.

“Now sir, what can I do for you and the lovely lady here?” He smiles, and all of his teeth are perfectly straight and white. Gaby notes his hair is slicked back and he wears a suit like he was born in one. The dossier she’d read over Napoleon’s shoulder in their hotel suite stated that the man was born into a wealthy family and he’d attended Yale, wherever that was, and had been top in his class. He’d served in the second War stationed in France, yet had been more of an office administrator than soldier. He didn’t look like someone who would sell out United States secrets, but there you had it.

“My fiancee and I were just wanting to know how we would go about setting up a little prenuptial agreement,” Henry says and Gaby notes the way his voice rises and falls with a lilt. Texans sound odd, she thinks to herself, but not unpleasant. They have a cadence which is nice, she decides as the men discuss their fictitious business.

“She insists upon it,” Henry added with a fond look spared to Gaby when Charles asked why it was so important to them. This answer seemed to surprise the lawyer and Gaby decided to use it as her entry into the conversation.

“You seem surprised, Mr. Francis.” She replies in a French accent. It’s one of the few others she can do well enough after having mastered copying a girl in a radio program when she was a child in Berlin.

“Not at all, mademoiselle.” He replies back and it’s smooth the way he says the French word. “Just normally it is the gentlemen who insist, not the young ladies.”

He smiles politely, the way she supposes a shark smiles at their prey before they devour them. If she was the honest Catholic French girl she’s pretending to be, Gaby would have felt insulted by the implication she was just another fortune-seeking foreigner after the American businessman’s money. As it was, Gaby had to pretend to look offended.

“My fiancee is not like most women,” Napoleon smooths over and squeezes Gaby’s hand. The giant diamond on her finger glistening in the light produced by the lamps overhead.

“I can see that, Mr. Roberts. I can very well see that.” Charles says and leans over to press a button on the intercom of his desk. “Lucille, do me a favor and bring in some of that paperwork I had you compile earlier.”

Once an affirmative answer is given, Charles smiles again like a shark at the pair of them. “We just have some paperwork to have you fill out and then you’ll be on your way.”

Napoleon smiles as Gaby pretends to be as French and indifferent as possible. As she absently runs her finger over the engagement ring on her finger, she thinks of another man who put a ring on the same finger not that long ago. She wonders if he’s been tracking her and if he has, she hopes that the distance between them now hasn’t gotten too large to sever the connection. For a second, Gaby wonders if she’s even thinking about the ring’s transmitting device or if it’s something far more personal than that.

* * *

The ring of the phone is what stirs Illya awake. He blinks and the sun is streaming in through the windows, despite the curtains that he has installed to try and keep it out. He shifts and then groans, realizing a soreness in his hands, his jaw, and then his back that he hadn’t remembered the night before. Then he remembers everything; the rain, the fight, the blood. Illya blinks the brightness away and sees that he’s lying on the floor of his flat, next to his sofa and his legs are over his head, as if he had been sitting in reverse on the furniture before falling over on his back.

He thought he’d been trying to stretch out his back, he assumes as he goes to answer the phone. Everything is stiff and it hurts, but he’ll be fine because he has to be. His hands clasp around the receiver and he picks up, not bothering to look at his watch as he does.

“Da?” He speaks and hears a sharp inhale of breath. It’s a tell that Oleg has whenever he’s about to be very short-tempered. Illya sits on the sofa, the cord of the phone being pulled long. He blinks his bleary eyes and tries to adjust to the new morning’s light as Oleg starts in on him.

“Where are you, Kuryakin? You are late. I hope you have good excuse.”

Illya forces himself to make sense of the numbers on his watch. _Oh._ Damn.

He swears out loud as he answers. “I will be on my way in a moment. I lost track of time and forgot to set my alarm.”

“This is the second time I have called you! We will discuss this matter when you arrive. Get here, now!”

The line goes dead and Illya knows that he’s in more trouble than he should be. By being late, he’s crossed a line somewhere, an invisible one that he wasn’t aware existed until now. Deciding against showering again, he already ended up having one last night, Illya dresses as quickly as he can before he departs his apartment to make his way into the depths of the city.

He pays no mind to the brisk wind as it catches his hat and almost blows the thing off his head as he runs into the Lubyanka Building, heading to the stairs to go to his handler’s office. He doesn’t even do his normal routine of greeting the lady at the desk before he is in front of Oleg’s secretary, no smile on the older woman’s face either. He swallows and adjusts his jacket before he is told to go inside the office and he knocks once and waits for the command to enter.

Oleg is seated behind his desk and he’s reading some form of paperwork. Illya moves into the office but doesn’t dare speak yet, nor does he sit down. He folds his hands behind his back and waits to be addressed. Oleg intentionally waits several minutes before addressing him, setting the paper he was reading back in the file it came from and he closes it before he sets about making himself a cup of tea. He finishes brewing a fresh pot and prepares it the way he likes, taking about twenty minutes in the process, before he finally looks up. Illya notices the name on the file that he’d been reading spells out ‘Единая сеть Команда для закона и приведении в исполнение’, the Russian way of saying the meaning of U.N.C.L.E.’s acronym.

“I hope your tardiness is not going to be a recurring activity.” Oleg finally says by way of greeting, stirring the last of the sugar into his tea. Illya remains silent, but simply shakes his head to answer. “Sit, Kuryakin.”

Illya does so and he remembers a good fair few meetings in this office. He can’t remember all of them, there’s been too many, but he remembers some important ones. There’s a few he would rather forget, but can’t because of the content of them. He’s been praised here, punished here, reprimanded, and commended in this office, and in the chairman’s office a few floors above once or twice. This chair that he’s put himself in has become familiar to him, and it’s not a comfortable one. He wonders if Oleg has a stiff chair on purpose to avoid having to keep guests for extended periods of time before they get up and leave to find softer places to sit, none of which can be found in Oleg’s office apart from the chair that the man himself sits in.

The room itself is darkened by the wood panels that cover the entirety of the walls. The floors are hardwood, covered by a few thick carpets. A minute fireplace is opposite of Oleg’s desk and midway between it and the desk is a single double-paned window that looks at the Square below. It would be an inviting place if there were more comfortable chairs and some paintings on the wall, Illya thinks, but he always thought of this building as cold. Dangerous. Soviet. As if to reinforce that point, the hammer and sickle are mounted above the door in silver ornamentation. As if anyone could forget where they were.

“Do you know why you have been called to Moscow?” He starts and Illya knows this game, knows how to play it. He’s played it well for several years now. He remains silent. “Go on, take a guess.”

“Because you have work for me.” Illya finally does and plays the safe answer. It’s not what he thinks, especially not after seeing the file on Oleg’s desk, but it’s what he knows is the safest answer. He hasn’t even glanced at the folder sitting so plainly in the open in case Oleg decides to bring it up. He makes himself look at it once, just registering it, so that Oleg sees him do it, but afterwards he plays it off like it’s simply another file that he need not care about.

“You are correct, partially. I always have work for you. But you should ask why now, and not, say in six months?” Illya wonders why six months is so important, but he remains impassive. “U.N.C.L.E.’s review is up then and every nation that supports the cause of the organization is to have a meeting to see if the organization is actually helpful. Do you think it’s helpful, Kuryakin?”

“It seems to be, so far.” Illya replies and he wonders if he put a little too much honesty into that answer. In truth, he thinks it helps a great deal, but he won’t expand on his answer. Like most things, he’ll keep it to himself. He adds after a moment, “I suppose whatever work you have for me is significantly important and I am, as always, ready to serve.”

“I wonder…” Oleg replies quietly, more to himself than to Illya, he thinks, but he shakes his head and opens a drawer of his desk, the only one with two locks on it. He slips the U.N.CL.E. file back inside it before he pulls out a thinner envelope. He sets it on his desk, pushes the drawer shut, and then looks at Illya. He doesn’t address the envelope at all. “Kuryakin, you consider yourself a good Russian, don’t you? A good Communist?”

Illya nods, uncomfortable as he doesn’t know where this is going. He has heard tales of such conversations beginning the same way and it never ends well for those on the receiving end of those two questions. He keeps his face unreadable, stoney, as he nods his agreement.

“And you have no trouble mixing with our Western...friends?” Oleg adds the word at the end as if it tastes unpleasant in his mouth. Illya thinks of Gaby for a moment.

“I have no trouble with them, sir. Though they can be frustrating.”

“In what way?”

Honest answers come to Illya first. He hates the way Napoleon simply has to make a snippy comment to _every_ thing, and how he always has to be immaculately dressed. He hates the way Napoleon seems to know everything and can charm the skin off a snake. He hates the way Gaby produces mixed signals and kisses him, but somehow they never get further than that. He hates the way she can invade his mind and torment him, even when he’s trying to not think of her. He hates the way she steals his chess pieces and makes him look for them, or the way she always has to put her feet in his lap when they are relaxing after a trying day. Actually, he rather likes that one, he decides in a nanosecond.

But he has to lie, or at least seem to. In the end, he tells the truth, kind of.

“The American is pushy and is needlessly loud. He thinks himself more important than he really is. The chop shop girl is volatile and likes to put herself in places she does not belong.”

Oleg nods agreement, watching his agent with curious eyes. “Americans are very obnoxious.” Oleg concedes without further thought on the matter. He pushes the envelope across his desk. “Your assignment.”

Illya lets out a breath, making it look as if he’s been slightly bored by this line of inquiry from the start. He leans forward and takes the envelope in hand, a nail sliding under the seal to open it. He pulls out a single photograph, leaving a few pieces of paper inside the envelope and takes a look at the photograph.

It’s a black and white photograph of a man and a little girl. He’s dressed in a suit with a thicker coat over it and it’s casual enough in appearance, apart from the fact that he was walking through Red Square dressed not in Soviet style. He would have stood out like a sore thumb, even if he wasn’t a smiling and cheerful looking fellow. It’s not only his attire that would’ve caused him to make heads turn, something far worse than that was on his arm. In the hand that wasn’t holding the girl’s, there was a camera and on his arm the bag it belonged to. Illya knows the man likely drew attention to himself simply by existing and wonders what crime he could’ve committed that would warrant him being pulled from a top-secret, technically non-existent organization. He is left to wonder when he turns the photograph over and only a single word is written in Cyrillic and it gives him a moment’s pause.

Ликвидировать.

Eliminate.


	4. Suddenly Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I would like to thank the wonderfully helpful Rand for my bothering her with some questions. You, my lady, are a Rembrandt among finger paintings. *bows to you*
> 
> Secondly....I really like this chapter because of the second half of it. *laughs evilly* More about that after the chapter though. >:D Enjoy! And thank you everyone who has left me wonderful comments. I really appreciate your generosity and appreciation of this story ♥
> 
> And no, I did not see the film AGAIN today. *ahem* Don't judge me. ¬¬

The thunder came intermittently as the storm lazily continued throughout the afternoon like it had all day. The smell of fresh rain had mixed with the earth and that was about the freshest thing that had been smelled by the city of Moscow for a long time. It periodically rained heavier at times than in others, but for the most part the day had been spent in dreary conditions as a continuous rain fell from the sky with only a little wind to stir it around. The few vehicles there were splashed the puddles that lingered on the road as they passed through the city streets.

Illya had been following his mark for several hours now, undetected. He was just doing reconnaissance for now before he moved in to decide on how he would eliminate the criminal. He didn’t have much time, but so long as he got the job done before the week’s end, then everything would be fine. He was a patient man, but he wasn’t sloppy. Oleg had simply said the man was dangerously important and needed to be removed before something happened that would look bad for the Party. He hadn’t said what they were looking for that would count as that bad, and Illya had known better than to ask. After all, he’d helped get rid of people for much less than possibly being involved in espionage or conspiracy.

So far, the man whose name was Timothy Harrison, had a pretty routine day, if the regular greeting he was given by the gentleman in the _Dom Zhurnalistov_ was anything to go by. Illya had let himself in a few minutes after Harrison had and had promptly gone to a corner by the window to observe the room in its entirety. He had ordered nothing, except a newspaper and a pot of tea and put his skills to use as a keen observer of the space around him without appearing obvious. With barely a glance around the room, Illya knew he wasn’t the only spy there. At least three other KGB agents were scattered the breakfast room and there was one who appeared either CIA or MI-6 but he wasn’t sure without further observation.

Harrison had taken a table a little off the center of the room, a two person table, and had ordered tea and biscuits, the British kind, and had gone about reading the Evening Standard, a British newspaper. Illya recalled what the other pieces of paper in the envelope had said about the subject in question. They thought this man was a spy, using his camera to capture images that should never leave Soviet Russia, or else it would look bad for them all.

All Illya had been able to glean from this man so far was that he liked tea and had a horrible taste in snacks. _Then again, he is British_ , Illya thought to himself and he sighed as he began to read the Pravda edition he ordered a few moments ago, which had finally arrived in addition to his tea. For his part, Illya looked like just another citizen entertaining themselves away in a press club while the rest of Moscow went about their normal, quiet, Communist business. The thought of the target’s nationality triggered a few thoughts of another person, and Illya found that he can’t concentrate on the words on the page.

If he was asked to be honest without fear of punishment or worse, Illya would say he hates her for her power. She invades his mind the way a crippling sickness invades a person’s being to the point that they are smothered with disease until they finally relent, being sucked under the feverish haze to perish in misery and anguish. She affects him to the point of distraction and he hates it, almost hates her entirely for it. Illya wonders if he can bother her a fraction of the way she has permeated his mind but he doubts it. Yes, they kiss and share a few looks that last a little too long, but she hates Russians and the entirety of the Soviet Union and if Illya thinks logically about it, he can’t fault her for her sentiments. Not for the first time, Illya can empathize and perhaps it’s that empathy that earned him a return ticket home to prove just how good of a Communist he really was.

He wonders what exactly Oleg knows about him and Gaby. He starts with a list of things he knows to be true about his handler. The KGB spy on their own people, especially the good ones. Illya wouldn’t be surprised if he found out that he’d been bugged with far more advanced secretive Russian bugs than the ones he places on Solo sometimes. He wouldn’t be surprised if an agent was dispatched just to keep an eye on him while he works with U.N.C.L.E. to make sure that he doesn’t step out of line, or gets the suggestion in his head to defect. He would be even less surprised if they had taken photographs of him on said missions and they had been added to the file that the KGB and Soviet government have had on him and every other member of his family since he was born, and likely before his birth also. Illya does not think that it was simple coincidence he was recalled for _this_ mission, this boring piece of work that anyone--even a junior field agent--could have done. Oleg, and therefore the uppers of their organization, must know something about him that doesn’t look too well on his record, Illya decides and then makes himself stop those thoughts before they can root themselves.

They want him like this; he can recognize the signs of their intended method himself because he’s used them before on other people. Have the suspected person work themselves into a frenzy so that they make a mistake or do something that is illegal or out their secrets. Have the mark become so paranoid that they jump at shadows, have near anxiety-attacks at the sound of dogs barking in the night, or have them afraid that everything is poisoned, bugged, or a shot lingers around the corner. Wear the person down so that all the torturing that needs to be done has already been done inside their own mind so that, when the time comes, the actual torture is far less than it needs to be. They’ve already anticipated the worst that can be done to them, it’s almost a small mercy when only a few fingers are removed instead of the whole hand…

By playing this game and losing, by making a mistake which can get you executed or at the very least imprisoned for the rest of your life, is all part of the game, a spy game, and Illya knows how to play. He has been taught by the best there is and he is the most significant resource that he can use. All of the secrets of the KGB, all of their tricks and shadows that cause people to grow fearful, he has learned them all, and he was never accused of being a poor student. He tells himself to calm down and focus and be the good spy that they trained him to be and forget the anxiety that is threatening to scare him. If he tries anything that is something he wouldn’t normally do, they’ll send him to be with his father in Siberia or perhaps worse.

Illya glances over the corner of his newspaper but hones his skills of listening when a man joins Harrison at his table. Harrison has risen from his chair and shakes the man’s hand before they sit down to have tea. The new addition is also British and they start a conversation. At first it’s the simple pleasantries of how one another is doing, how the family is, and--as is a staple in British conversation--they discuss the weather until there is positively nothing else to discuss, except politics or the fact that they aren’t at home and in one of the most dangerous countries on the Earth. Illya waits for them to shift the conversation to the original reason that they are meeting here but it never comes.

Fruitlessly, they discuss sport, especially football, and then the man leaves as if they simply had bumped into one another for tea. Illya watches to see if any notes are passed, but none are. He grips the newspaper a little tighter and wonders if that isn’t a clue by itself. He rethinks their entire conversation silently and tries to detect a code in it. He’ll have to think more about it later, as now it’s time to go since Harrison is paying his bill and putting on his hat. Illya sighs out of boredom; how many other fickle errands can this man possibly need to run?

* * *

Illya cranes his neck from side to side as he leans back on his sofa for the night. He has already taken a shower, a cold one since hot water was a non-existent luxury here, and he’s had a quick bowl of soup that he made from the broth of a chicken bone and some rice that had managed to keep in his practically empty cupboard. It wasn’t much, but it had been hot, and after the day spent moving as unnoticeably as possible in the rain, he had been grateful for it.

He had ended up leaving Harrison at the man’s apartment in one of the foreign sections of Moscow. He would check on him in the morning and follow him well into the night tomorrow, but with travel and the fight he’d gotten into, Illya’s sore back had caught up to him and he needed to sleep for tonight. Besides, he had rationalized, Harrison had been telling the man in the press club that he was going to have a quiet night-in with his daughter, Catherine, and perhaps watch some televison before he turned in. Apparently, there was some football match on that he did not want to miss. _Not like he would have had a good signal_ , Illya muttered to himself as he considered hauling his tired body up to go to bed or if it would be worth it to just pass out here on the sofa.

He was debating such an issue when a knock sounded on his door. Raising his eyebrows, he never received visitors, Illya stood and made sure he had his weapon and silencer in hand. He refused to grow anxious; if the KGB were going to arrest him, they would not have knocked so politely. He keeps the weapon out of sight as he opens the door and nearly drops the gun when he sees who is on the other side.

She’s tall for a woman and a beautiful one, it’s not something he can argue with. However, she has aged and it appears that she’s done more of that since the last time he’d seen her. She has a few more wrinkles around her eyes and around her mouth, but all in all she seems to be handling the cold Russian winters a lot better than he would have given her credit for. Illya is almost impressed, but then he should expect no less. She was his mother after all.

“Mother.” Illya says and he’s surprised to see her, but it’s not that unusual. He has seen her occasionally over the years since he joined the KGB, which she knows he is part of. She doesn’t like it and has said so many times, but there’s not much she can do about her son being in a position where he could have her arrested if the whim took him. Not that he would, he’d promised her a few hundred times.

“Illya.” She replies softly, almost kindly. He lets her in and she follows him into his apartment. He knows she is going to take a look around at the sparsely furnished place and critique him on it, but she says nothing at first. Illya takes in her silvering blond hair and her complexion and he has to admit, Alexandra Kuryakina is a beautiful lady. _And thinking of her in such ways is why they suggest you have an Oedipus complex_ , Illya reminds himself and almost rolls his eyes. He would have if she hadn’t turned around to face him.

“You look tired.”

“I am tired. It is late.”

“Yes.” She says and then something flickers across her face that looks as if she almost feels bad about disturbing him without calling first. “You know how they are after dark and making phone calls…”

Illya nods because he does know. It’s part of the rules; you don’t go out after such and such time, though no official curfew exists at the moment, and you don’t make phone calls if you can help it. For one they are expensive and for two, you are never alone on the line. Someone is always listening. He gestures to the sofa so she may sit and he wonders if there’s any tea in his cabinet. He had a cup earlier but he couldn’t remember if there was any more. He would have to deal with the long lines to get a somewhat decently stocked kitchen, he resigns to himself as he looks anyway. His mother takes a seat and watches him.

“Is there something in particular you wanted?” He asks as he does manage to find more tea. He begins to prepare it, though it will take a few moments and he isn’t sure if they have enough to talk about to fill the time. They have lots of things they could say, but they can’t actually have any of the conversations they should. Illya thinks it’s almost a pity, almost.

Alexandra looks as if she wants to say something and she opens her mouth to do so. Eventually she shakes her head and gives him a smile, but Illya has seen enough female expressions over the years, particularly from his mother, to know that she really does have something to say but she can’t say it here. Where anyone could be listening, and he understands. Any conversation of value needs to be had outside, in the park or somewhere where there is less likelihood of someone uninvited to be eavesdropping. She speaks and delivers a perfectly toned excuse.

“I just wanted to see my son. It has been… _Solnyshko_ , how long has it been?”

He remembers her calling him ‘little sun’ from when he was a boy, back when things were better. When his father had still been around. He shoves those memories away as if it were an assassin and he were fighting to the death in hand to hand combat. He is tempted to reply to her question sarcastically, the way Napoleon likely would have. ‘Not long enough’ is what he wants to say, but he’s polite. If anyone listening hears him reply sarcastically, they could use his mother against him to rile him. It would work. Solo found that out easily enough.

“Four years, I think, mother.” Illya says and pulls the boiling kettle away from the heat to pour into the mug of tea to let it steep.

“Well, I think it is quite time I saw my son, don’t you think?” She says and Illya shrugs. He hands over the mug without touching her, pushing it along the table next to the sofa, as he sits in the chair opposite her.

“I don’t have sugar or anything.” He says quietly and she nods, as if she’s not expecting it anyway. He wonders if she’s gotten used to drinking bitter tea after all these years. Once upon a time, when he’d been a boy, they used to have sugar for anything they wanted. When his father still had his job, and they had the necessary vouchers to have all sorts of privileges that seem only like a faded memory to him now.

Alexandra sips her tea and her face remains expressionless as the brew goes down. Maybe she really is okay with drinking bitter tea, Illya thinks. He couldn’t stand it that way, if it were up to him.

“You have really grown quite handsome,” she says and there’s a look of pride in her eyes. Illya forces himself not to tap his fingers, though his bad habit is lurking on the rim of his mind. “And you are so tall.”

“Just like my father, yes?” He finishes for her so she doesn’t have to. This time he can’t help it; his finger begins to tap against his knee. She takes note of his tick and doesn’t look at all surprised that the gesture of his childhood is returning now at the mention of his father. Her husband.

“Yes, your father was quite tall.” Illya decides to end the conversation now, anyone listening or not, because he doesn’t want to demolish his apartment so close to midnight. The neighbors would talk and by tomorrow afternoon he would be having to explain why he was throwing furniture around and shattering the few plates he had to Oleg.

“I am tired mother. You should be going since it is getting late.” Illya feigns concern, but his expression and his tone hold none of it. Alexandra looks at him then, slightly panicked, as if she really did need to speak with him about something. She sets the cup down on the table.

“If you like, solnyshko. I have missed you.” She says while standing and Illya doesn’t reply. She pulls something out of her purse and presses it into his hands. A napkin. She starts for the door, not bothering to give him a hug or a kiss on the cheek because she knows he wouldn’t accept it and would likely react poorly to it. She’s right, he would.

He glances at the napkin and sees her handwriting. ‘Meet me tomorrow? I need to discuss something with you, from mother to son, not to a KGB agent. Nod if you agree to meet me at the Square at lunch time.’

Illya sees her waiting for his reply by the door, her hand lingering on the doorknob. He sighs. He needs to work tomorrow and follow that gentleman. He doesn’t have time to deal with whatever his mother needs dealing with. But he does nod to her and she gives him a smile. After she leaves, Illya rationalizes his choice again. If she would seek him out after four years of silence, perhaps there really is something important that she needs to discuss with him.

The cup she used goes into the sink after he rinses it out and he turns to go collapse into his bed. He hadn’t expected his visitor and now that she’s gone, her subtle perfume lingers in his living room. Illya closes his eyes and groans as his back finally relaxes under the relief of not having to support him any more for the day. As he starts to fall asleep, he tries to think of another woman’s perfume and is only too happy to dream of sunshine and brown eyes that belong to a pretty brunette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I could tell, there is no mention in the TV series or film, of Illya's mother's name so I created one. I believe I got the surname for her correct, but if not, let me know and I shall fix it. :)


	5. Dreams, Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy crap I updated! D: OMG. Anyway. *ahem* I updated this :D I kind of like it, but I kind of don't at the same time. Oh well. More to come soon! And thank you everyone for your wonderful comments but most especially your patience! Also, I haven't forgotten your drabble requests. You can still make them also on my Tumblr! :) Brownie points if you can also figure out the films mentioned in this chapter ;)

He dreams that night.

She’s soft under his hands as he pulls her closer to hold and he groans with so much emotion locked away inside of his chest that it’s trapped, trapped and he wants it to be gone. So that he can be free of her. So that he can be free to be with her. He wants to tell her everything he thinks, he feels, but he can’t because then she’d know too much and she’d probably be repelled by some of the things he has done, if not by his actions, then by the depth of the affection he has for her. And he has such affection for her. She is the softness to his blunt edge, the gentility to his commonality, she’s cheer and warmth where he is distant and glacial. She’s pure where he is not and he can’t bear to lose her, the very thought of it makes him unable to breathe and it hurts, it aches so much that he grips her a little tighter inside of his mind, unaware that he’s really only gripping the thin flannel sheets under his hands. He can’t bear the loss of her by his side.

Inside of his dreams, she’s resting lightly on top of him in the bed he has claimed as his own. It’s not in the boring, dull room that is inside of his flat in Moscow, so he guesses it’s some sort of suite somewhere but he doesn’t linger on that part of the dream. The location, after all, is unimportant, especially when Gaby’s hands are so very soft as they rest on his chest, lightly playing with the sparse hair that coats his chest as they kiss and kiss, like an endless Sunday afternoon in a warm climate. He wishes then that they were somewhere near a beach and they could spend forever like this, this tranquil; it’s a happy thought, if not an impossible one. His hands are resting just above the curve of her bottom on her lower back as he holds her in place there on top of his body. She is so soft, and so small on him that she may as well be a feather. Illya’s afraid he may break her if he is too rough, but she has never broken under his hands, not once.

There is no furious rutting between them, no desperate desire to consume one another’s flesh in a fury of endless sparks and wildfire, but there is a comfortable, light bond between the pair of them that needs to be kept strong and that’s exactly what he plans on doing. Illya’s hands hold her close to him as the kiss finally ends and then they’re looking into one another’s eyes and Illya swears this is what perfection must be.

“I love you,” Gaby says and his heartbeat explodes exponentially in happiness. He smiles, genuinely, and pulls her close for another kiss. Once that one and it’s series of sequels are over, she tucks herself beside him, his arm wrapped protectively around her and she’s there and it’s perfect and docile and the way he wants to spend every waking moment for the rest of his life because she is more, so much more, than he thinks he could ever deserve and she loves him. There’s no lie or malice in it; they aren’t pretending for a cover and it’s real, genuine, and he loves her so much he can’t breathe. He should tell her that.

He says her name and promises her his love as well with his lips, because somehow the words always come out wrong and lost and it’s not fair, but he goes to kiss her again, only to be met with the taste of cheap quality cotton as his alarm rouses him from his perfect Gaby. Illya swears as he comes to realize it wasn’t real, that it was only in his mind, and he flops onto his back and stares at the cracks in his bedroom ceiling. The alarm is still going but he ignores it because he’s aroused and knows precisely how to relieve it since he’s had to for months now, but he lets the feeling linger for a few moments. Something will have to be done about the Teller girl, he thinks as he lets his hands rest on his abdomen, intentionally not sliding them lower, the movement of his breathing lifting them ever so slightly before dropping them back. He can torture himself a little, his piety needs to be reminded of its existence. He eventually turns the alarm off so that his neighbors won’t complain for his having left it on too long, not that they would anyway. They likely know what he does for a career, but if they don’t, they can guess and that’s how rumors spread. Illya likes the rumors. He likes to be left alone.

It was poor form to fall in love with a spy, and it was worse form to fall in love with your country’s enemy’s spy. He could be killed for this, or worse. Illya lets that thought linger in his mind as he begins to take care of his morning problem in the silence of his apartment. Not even the city is awake yet, much unlike Paris, Moscow doesn’t want to be alive anymore than he does. His eyes close and he tries to think of anything to settle his internal desire; Soviet Russia, gulags, frozen Siberian wastelands...but nothing can save him from being destroyed by a pretty brunette with a soft German accent. So he relieves his problem with the thoughts of the Teller girl in his mind like he has done for weeks.

* * *

Another morning of boring routine, but at least Illya has gleaned a few additional details despite the chilly morning’s mist. He had left his own flat and travelled across the city, all before the first vendor would begin to lift the screen on their door to sell their bread and much before the first person would join the line that would stretch from the shop to around the block before noon. He didn’t eat breakfast, nor did he have any tea. He would wait to see where the Briton took him for the day before he made any decisions on his own dime.

There was fog that morning from the lack of a proper breeze to chase it away. The mist didn’t help and so Illya remained on the street corner in the dark as the cold clung to everything. If there was grass nearby, it would have crunched underfoot, but there was none here because everything was paved and the winter was coming, autumn had smothered the little green away where the concrete had not claimed. A boy came by about fifteen minutes after Illya had been watching the house that Timothy Harrison was letting. Illya recognizes the newspapers in his arms and stops the boy with a nod and a word called out to him. He pays for a paper and tips too large to not want information, which the boy notices, and so Illya asks about the ‘gentleman’ that lives in the large townhouse.

“The man and the girl live there.” He says and Illya waits for him to continue. When he doesn’t, Illya speaks.

“I paid for more than that. Go on, boy.”

“They came from London. Their housekeeper gives me sweets if I bring the evening edition.”

“Do you always bring an evening edition?”

“No. Only on Thursdays.”

“Why?”

The boy shrugged and Illya almost had no use of him after that. Still, he asks anyway.

“So just the girl and the man live there?”

“Yes, just the girl and the man.”

“You mentioned a housekeeper…”

“She leaves at night.”

“The child has no governess or tutor?”

The boy shrugged and Illya knew it was a stretch. The boy likely was never on the street long enough to know more than what he’d said, and knowing that much was already impressive. Illya patted his shoulder and sent him on his way. Once the sound of the boy’s footsteps carried down the distance, Illya glanced at the headline of the paper in his hand. Not a Russian publication, but the Evening Standard again. Illya wondered where the boy had gotten it from, and he looked up to find him, but the boy had faded into the mist and the fog. Illya held the incriminating paper in his hands before he tucked it under his arm. He had to report the boy, but what would happen to him after that, Illya couldn’t say.

Harrison stayed inside until the sun came up, another two hours later. Illya had taken a seat on a bench on the street and was reading a newspaper. This time, he’d bought it from the _Pravda_ sales boy that came by. Cheerfully reading away in Russian, or at least appearing to, Illya looked over the top of the paper as the door across the street finally opened. Harrison was dressed in another suit that didn’t belong in a Soviet country, and he was kissing the little girl’s cheek goodbye.

“But papa!” Illya could hear her say and Harrison smiled fondly at her. He picked her up to hug her close as the little girl threw her arms around his neck. Illya found it sweet in some remote part of his mind that still existed despite exhaustive training by KGB superiors.

The little girl pouted as he set her back down, next to the housekeeper that had arrived to stand in the doorway. Unlike his daughter, Harrison’s voice did not carry across the street so Illya wasn’t sure what was said. It seemed to placate the girl enough that he could leave, though, because he started down the steps to the car that was waiting for him. It had arrived as he’d been hugging his daughter. Illya saw a taxi approaching from the south, travelling slowly through the streets. If Harrison hurried up, Illya would be able to catch it without attracting much attention, if any.

He lucked out because the Briton got into the car on time, just as the taxi slowed when Illya stood up. He gave an order to follow Harrison’s car as they started on their way down the road. Illya glanced at the little girl whose hand was being taken by the housekeeper and walked back inside. She was a pretty little girl and Illya wondered what happened to her mother and why her father brought her all the way to Russia.

* * *

Gaby was laying on the bed in the suite that U.N.C.L.E. was paying for. They had an apartment in a building in Manhattan near the park, but they couldn’t stay there in case their covers were compromised. Not that they would be, Waverly had promised, but in the event something happened. Gaby was laying on her back with her head over the side of the bed and she was looking out of the window, looking at the twinkling lights in taller buildings than she’d ever imagined before. New York was beautiful. She could absolutely understand why film stars and famous people flocked to its magnificence for so long. She wanted to go shopping, but Napoleon was being strict with the money. Good thing too, because Gaby would have spent the whole budget of the mission likely on one pair of shoes in Macy’s if she’d gotten the chance. 

He was on the phone in the other room, talking to someone that wasn’t with their newly formed organization. Gaby wasn’t actively eavesdropping, but certain words every so often would spike her interest. He wasn’t really saying much more than he was listening, which told her that it was someone important on the other end of the phone. When he did speak, it was only a few soft spoken ‘yes sir’s’ and ‘I understand’. Eventually the conversation ended, and he walked back into the bedroom part of the suite. They only had the one bed, but he’d acted like a gentleman the entire time. Gaby appreciated his manners, especially since if he were a tall blond Russian KGB agent, she would not have shown such restraint. Since he wasn’t, she had little difficulty in fighting a non-existent urge to cuddle with him.

It wasn’t until he picked up the suitcase from the floor that Gaby sat up from her reclining position.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving you my dear,” Napoleon tells her, echoing a line from a film he had made her watch earlier. All four hours of it.

“And frankly you don’t give a damn?” Gaby teases him, remembering only really that final line from the ending scenes of the movie.

“Contrarily, I do give a damn, Gabs.” He says, understanding why she had spoken like that. They had developed this teasing routine between them where they would speak in film lines to one another. It drove Illya mad since he didn’t know what they were talking about. Gaby liked American and British film and Napoleon made sure to spoil her with them as often as he could. “But I am leaving you.”

“Where are you going?” She asks and watches as he begins to pack. “What about our mission?”

“Something has come up and I have to leave you for a little while. Waverly says the mission is still in place. You’re just going to have to make up an excuse for my absence.” He speaks while he has started looking around for his favorite tie.

“Behind you, on the dresser.” Gaby says absently before adjusting the blanket under her and smoothing out any wrinkles. “So you went away on business...something like that?”

“That’s good.” Napoleon agrees, placing the tie in the case.

“How long are you going to be gone? Where are you going anyway?”

“Hopefully not for very long. Regardless, I trust you with the mission, Gabs.” He moves over and picks up her hands, placing a soft kiss in both of her palms. He continues to hold her by the wrists and smiles at her. “You can get this guy yourself, you won’t even need me.”

Gaby hopes he’s right, but she has never single-handedly taken down anyone before. She has always had Illya and Napoleon for back up. Now with Napoleon leaving also…

The anxiety must have shown in her eyes because he lets go of her hands in favor of pulling her into a hug instead. She leans into his body and closes her eyes; the smell of his familiar cologne calming her, but not quite the same as the Russian’s does. She ignores that thought and enjoys the solidness under her cheek.

“You’ll be fine. I believe that you will be.” He says and gives her a light kiss on the cheek before giving her another squeeze and then he steps back. “I’m leaving in an hour.”

Gaby starts by how soon he’s leaving. Then she understands the need for urgency.

“It’s really important then, where you are going?”

He nods. “Yes. And it has to be done soon or else...well, or else it won’t end well.” He closes the case and secures the fastenings in place. Then he picks up a coat and drapes it over his arm while his hat goes in his empty hand. “Take care, Gabs. I’ll see you soon.”

Gaby wonders what she should say in this situation. Good luck doesn’t seem right, because she doesn’t know what he’s going to be doing. Maybe he shouldn’t have good luck. See you soon may not be accurate, but he said it, so that could work, she guesses. Finally, she thinks of the perfect thing to say, a smile lights her face as he mirrors it and starts for the doorway of their bedroom.

“Here’s looking at you, kid.”

Napoleon’s laugh echoes even after he leaves the suite entirely. Gaby doesn’t forget that he didn’t tell her where he was going and she wonders what that means long after she’s laid back down and resumed her study of the New York skyline.


End file.
